Last week I told myself that I would draw or paint everyday henceforth, and for the first few days I did.
Then I moved house again… and I haven’t had the opportunity to draw since.
Why haven’t I, I ask myself when I remember the absence of these actions.
Because all the paper is back in a box, a pile of boxes, because there is nothing to draw in this half empty house, because my head isn’t in quite the right place – still reacquainting myself with old/new patterns of behaviour.
Al these excuses are capable of being overcome, of course. Now I have thought them through and externalised them I can knock them down with a feather. No doubt I shall uncover other barriers to continuous practice as I go. (Long bus rides, visits to the seventh circle of hell that is ikea (fifth if it’s a weekend.)). They are only excuses if don’t want to do.
I’m already thinking about the act of drawing as I write this. I can list few things in my head I want to capture (and another excuse pops up – it’s too hard, too ambitious, I don’t know how to do it.). But that takes care of excuse number two.
As for number one, it is true that everything is in boxes suspended half way through a transformation, but there is enough variety in the content of those boxes to find some thing I can carry around with me and slip into a nonexistent pocket.
I bought these sketch books because they were pretty. I’ve had them so long the red cover has faded. Each book has a different kind of paper and I was afraid to use any of them. Does it matter to what use each type of paper is put? The only way to find out is to try them. The yellow book is embossed, covered in fine ridges – tempting me with broad strokes of pastel perhaps.
Each book holds forty leaves – how many days worth of work is that? Perhaps I’ll post another picture when I have done my worst by them.
All this introspection seems to have cleared up excuse number three.
If I haven’t done at least seven pages by next week you can be very disappointed in me.
I’ll keep you updated in the comments.